


we started losing light

by theamazingpeterparker



Series: king of new york [2]
Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Angst, Artist Louis, Artist Zayn, Break Up, Character Study, Coming of Age, Existential Crisis, Graffiti, Los Angeles, Louis-centric, M/M, Moving Out, New York City, Running Away
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-24
Updated: 2016-07-24
Packaged: 2018-07-26 12:02:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,991
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7573321
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theamazingpeterparker/pseuds/theamazingpeterparker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>This is a bad idea. He’s never been to LA. He should stay here. He shouldn’t dump Winslow on Niall. There might be new art in Los Angeles. New friends to make. His mother always told him to never run from his problems. Zayn and Niall will probably beg him to come home. He books a one-way ticket.</i>
</p><p>Louis and Niall break up.</p>
            </blockquote>





	we started losing light

**Author's Note:**

> this might be the fic that took me the longest and was hardest to write. thank you to anyone/everyone who has listened to me rant about this whole concept for the last year or so but a few very special thank yous to kate and sharon, who really truly held my hand and pushed me through to publish this and kept their faith the whole way. thank u love u you know the rest , 
> 
> title is from fallingforyou by the 1975.

:::  
  
_“I want to tell you this story without having to confess anything.” - Richard Siken_

:::

It’s almost five in the morning and Louis just spilled dark blue paint all over Niall’s hoodie that he’s wearing. At first he doesn’t think anything of it, he doesn’t even remember what color most of his own shirts are in the first place and then he has to remind himself that this isn’t his place to make a mess.

“Shit,” Louis blurts as quietly as he can, he’s used to making messes but he’s always been shit at knowing how to clean up. He does know that this paint fucking _stains everything_ and rushes for the paper towels, does his best to mop up as much as he can without it dripping onto the floor. He only succeeds in streaking the paint across the gray front of Niall’s NYU hoodie. He’s considering the extendable nozzle on the sink to try and rinse it off while he dumps stained paper towels into the trashcan, panic rising in his throat because he’s never seen Niall genuinely angry, but he’s also never fucked up anything of Niall’s this badly before. He tosses the blue paper towels and slides his back down the wall until he’s on the floor, pulling out his phone for Zayn to save him.

_How do you get oil paint off a sweatshirt_

_arent u at nialls?_

_Hairspray, maybe before it dries_

That’s how Niall finds him four hours later, passed out on the kitchen floor with a ruined hoodie in his lap surrounded by cans of hairspray. “Louis,” Niall says, nudging the man on the floor with his shoe. “ _Lou_.”

“Dont be mad,” Louis slurs as he sits up, blinking blearily up at Niall. “I spilled paint on your sweatshirt but don’t be mad.”

“I see that,” Niall replies, helping Louis up and rubbing at a patch of paint on his bicep. “It’s okay, man.”

Niall has to trash the sweatshirt but he assures Louis about four hundred times that it’s okay on his way out the door for work. He doesn’t seem that upset, anyway, probably has more adult concerns to worry about, but Louis feels awful. Spends his day skateboarding down to NYU’s campus to buy another hoodie and draw aliens on the sidewalk with Zayn. Niall’s new sweatshirt ends up getting chalk all over the sleeves, anyway.

:::

They go with Harry to the ASPCA in upper Manhattan because Harry got drunk last night and cried at an ASPCA commercial and then decided he wanted a cat. It’s not so bad until they actually bring Harry back to the cat wing and he decides that he needs to hear the full and detailed history of every cat available and Louis starts itching for a cigarette. He and Zayn slip out a backdoor and take their smoke break along the fenced dog paddock and the small group of excited dogs outside rush up against the fence, tails wagging and claws clanging against the chainlink trying to get their attention. Louis crouches down and sticks his fingers through the fence, wiggling them at a dog at the edge of the pack and it trots over, sniffing his fingers curiously before licking and mouthing at his hand.

“There’s no smoking out here,” A voice chimes and Louis looks up to see the cranky middle-aged woman standing at the entrance to the paddock. Louis stands up and flicks his cigarette onto the pavement. “Can I come in and see this dog?” he asks, pointing to the animal still standing patiently at the fence. The woman squints at him but waves a hand, gesturing for them to come back into the building.

Zayn breathes a cautionary _Louis_ on their way back in but Louis ignores him, rounding the doorway back into the building where the woman waits, opening the door to a smaller room with toys and water dishes in it. Louis and Zayn go in and wait patiently until the woman returns with the scruffy dog on a lead. She lets it loose in the room and closes the bottom half of the dutch door. “We’ve had her for about a year,” Mary supplies, leaning on the door and watching the dog approach Louis and Zayn with ease. “No chip or tags, but she’s neutered and seems to do well with people. She came from Montauk, but we haven’t gotten any calls. She can be named and taken home with the fee and paperwork.”

“Are you a Montauk girl?” Louis asks as he kneels and the dog breaks into a toothy grin. She’s some kind of mutt with tawny, wiry fur and the kindest pair of brown eyes Louis has ever seen besides Zayn’s. Her fur falls over her mouth like a little moustache. Louis is bringing this dog home.

::::::

“This is Winslow,” Louis introduces her. Niall gawks. “You didn’t think to call me about this?”

Louis grimaces. “Winslow. After Winslow Homer,” he clarifies. He _hadn’t_ thought to call Niall about it, and he’s pretty sure that he and Zayn’s landlord doesn’t allow pets. “I’ll get a job,” Louis decides immediately, tightening Winslow’s leash in his hands. “I’ll pay for her vet bills, she’s already kind of trained and everything, Niall, _please_.” Niall looks unconvinced, staring down at Winslow with a slight grimace. “They said she was at the shelter for a _year_ , Niall,” Louis pleads. “If I didn’t take her, they probably would’ve put her down.”

“Ben is looking to hire a secretary,” Niall says after a long moment. He sounds tired, looks tired when he turns his gaze back up to Louis. “I can put in a good word for you.”

Louis launches himself into Niall’s arms and kisses him on the mouth, Winslow giving a soft bark at the sudden movement. Niall’s arm settles around Louis’s waist and he laughs, tired and resigned. “She’s not sleeping on our bed,” he says.

:::

Louis takes care of Winslow like he promised he would but it’s mostly because Niall is never home. He’s working towards some promotion and he leaves at seven and doesn’t get home until eight or nine, always too tired to go out with Zayn and Louis and on weekends he sleeps and works from his laptop. Louis doesn’t remember them ever being this _boring_ but he can’t tell if Niall’s just always been like this or if it’s because Louis doesn’t have anything to do, sits at home and plays video games and walks Winslow until someone texts him with something fun to go do. Louis can’t tell if this is just how all adult relationships are supposed to work.

Niall has a three day weekend and Louis convinces him to come out and paint with Zayn and Josh and Nick and Niall obliges, old spark of curiosity lighting up his face when Louis hands him a few cans of paint on the train into Jersey. Feels like maybe they’re getting somewhere when they meet up with Robot at the train platform. They follow her on foot, picking through the underbrush and hopping a chain link fence to get to an old warehouse with a huge blank wall facing the AmTrak rails that lead into New York. Niall has only just started an uneven fill when there’s the wail of sirens that are just too close, the squad car pulling up to the fence and washing them all in neon reds and blues. Nick blurts _RUN!_ And Louis grabs Niall by the hood, pulling him along at a sprint down along the dirt road beside the trains until they’re far enough from the police sirens but also now lost in Newark. Louis is laughing, pushing his hood down with hands still tingling from adrenaline but when he look over Niall looks shell-shocked, pale and shaken. “What the fuck, Louis,” he blurts and Louis grins, “come on, that was the closest call yet,” he tries but Niall puts up a hand.

“That _was_ the closest call yet,” Niall snaps, pulling out his phone for a map back to the train station and shaking a leaf out of his hair. It feels like a slap in the face. Niall doesn’t come out painting with them anymore after that.

:::

Louis makes it up to him by finally agreeing to go out to dinner with Niall and his coworkers. It’s some swanky steakhouse uptown, fancy enough that Louis has to borrow one of Niall’s dress shirts and wear his only pair of dress shoes.

  
He doesn’t like Niall’s coworkers. They’re all rich white guys who brag about their cufflinks and business cards like they’re right out of _American Psycho_. Louis is drawing Christian Bale on his napkin when Justin across the table asks, “So what do you do, Louis?” There might be a condescending tone in there somewhere. The question startles Louis and his pen drags a stray squiggle across Bale’s chin.

“I’m the one who spray-painted the monkey wearing a suit on the wall across from your building last year,” Louis says casually and Niall hums next to him, gracefully cutting in, “Louis is an artist.”

“Oh, sick,” Justin replies but his heart isn’t in it. He must have been the one who called to get the monkey painted over. Louis ignores Niall’s knee that’s been digging hard into his thigh.

The dinner continues despite Louis’s attempts to get it to end. He mostly sits in silence, adding more dots of blood splatter onto Napkin Christian Bale while listening to Niall talk about work and law and golf and stuff that he’s never _talked_ about with Louis before. He doesn’t know what that’s supposed to mean.

:::

So Louis gets the secretary job. Niall’s ecstatic, takes Louis to Macy’s and buys him dress shirts and slacks and takes him to his tailor and gets him an actual suit. And Niall’s so happy, _so_ happy, so Louis fakes it, keeps his complaining to a minimum and lets Niall tow him around uptown to shop and give him the rundown on everyone at Niall’s law firm. They leave for work together, take the 8:03 train downtown and Niall drops Louis off on the seventh floor, introduces him to Ben and Nicole, another secretary. She shows him his desk and teaches him how to use the phones and doublechecks his direct deposit info, nine bucks an hour to get coffee and take messages. So far, it’s better than any of the retail and food service jobs that Louis usually takes when they’re strapped for cash.

He’s bored after three hours. It’s a full nine-to-five job and so far he’s customized his new Mac desktop as much as he can and has counted the fluorescent ceiling lights and rolled down the whole hall in his rolling chair five times until he got yelled at by some old guy from another office room. Niall’s not answering his texts except for a quick _grabbing lunch w some coworkers, will bring u a burger_ !

Niall comes back around 12:30, coming through the elevator doors looking like a goddamn savior holding a greasy bag from Five Guys that he passes over to Louis. “How’s secretary life?” he asks, bright and excited and Louis can’t find it in him to tell him the truth. He bites the inside of his cheek and chirps, “great!” before tearing into the lunch bag. Niall shoots him confident finger-guns before heading back into the elevator to get back to work.

 :::  
By the end of the third week Louis has carved into the wooden edge of his desk and covered every untouched area of his space with sticky notes, much to the disapproval of lawyers passing by. He knows that he hates this job. He’s bored and his tie is too tight and everyone who calls to leave Ben a message is a total dick. A lot of the other lawyer-types usually leave at, like, two and just don’t come back, so Louis packs up Friday afternoon, turns off his computer, and goes back to Niall’s.

Naill comes home that evening to Louis’s new suit on the floor and Louis in his boxers on the couch playing video games, glass pipe and nuggets of weed on the coffee table. Winslow is napping at his feet with her collar and leash still on. “Did you come home early?”

“Yeah,” Louis coughs, flapping a hand so Niall moves out of the way of GTA VI. Niall crosses his arms over his chest. “Niall, all the guys on my floor are gone by like, three, and then it’s just me fucking around on Twitter until six, anyway--”

“Louis, your job is to keep people in touch with Ben. Your job is to stay until Ben tells you you can leave.”

“Sorry,” Louis mutters, pausing his game to take another hit off his pipe. “But the whole firm isn’t going to fall apart because I dipped early once.”

Niall tangles his fingers in his tie to loosen it and must decide that it’s not worth it, shaking his head and going into the kitchen, banging around getting dinner. Louis fishes his phone out of his pocket, texts Zayn _I’m staying at ours tonight_ and gathers up a sleepy Winslow and his bag. Feels like he and Niall are falling apart as easily as they fell together and there’s nothing he can do about it.

:::

Louis walks Winslow and Niall wears his new NYU hoodie to Central Park on the nicest March Saturday that New York has seen in weeks. They spread out a beach towel and share a beer and slices of pizza. Winslow chases a frisbee and Niall naps with his head in Louis’s lap and Louis thinks that maybe they’re okay. Maybe all they needed was a sunny day and grass and the warmth and sound of other people in the park around them.

:::

They’re at Harry’s cafe for their weekly dinner during the cafe’s open mic night, just Louis and Niall tucked against the back corner window, BLTs and a plate of sweet potato fries between them. Niall’s just come from work, his tie still loose around his neck and his sleeves rolled up and Louis has just come from doing chalk art with Zayn on the steps of the Met, chalk dust faded up to his elbows and colorful dirt lodged under his blunt fingernails. Niall looks exhausted but he insisted that they go for dinner, anyway, hasn’t eaten all day. Louis does his best to not eat all of the fries between them. He fills the silence between poems by telling Niall about the crowds at the museum today, there for some new exhibit opening and Niall presses the heels of his hands into his eyes. “I think it was a big group of kids from Tisch. A few of them told us our chalk was really cool, but this _one_ kid got all mad, told us we were “disrespecting the museum grounds,” or whatever. One of those total art purists probably, you know the type? Would look down his nose at a mural on the street that took three days to do but someone like Pollock spills a bunch of paint onto a canvas while he’s drunk and that kid would think it’s the greatest masterpiece to grace the Earth.” Louis shakes his head, tipping his head back against the window. He’s used to talking to himself most of the time, now, just to fill the silence between him and Niall. It helps to say all of this outloud, can’t exactly write out his entire rants by hand on the sides of buildings.

“If street art is just as good as art in the Met, how come you’re not in the Met?” Niall asks tersely, not looking up from his plate. He already knows the answer. He can feel Louis’s eyes burning into his forehead.

“Because the Met subjects the freedom of creativity to the criticism of people who will understand it differently _because_ it’s in the Met.”

“Jesus christ, _what,_ ” Niall half laughs, shaking his head before polishing off the last of his sandwich, picking up his and Louis’s tray to carry back to the counter. It’s not an amused laugh but a cold one, a laugh Louis hears a lot lately. His chest stings from it. They don’t talk for the rest of the readings.

:::

“What did you mean, earlier,” Louis asks when they’re back at Niall’s, home from walking Winslow along Central Park. His voice is hard, sharp, scraping for any edge that he can tug back and open up again, “When you said my art would be better in a museum than on the streets.”

Niall bites down hard on the inside of his cheek, knows that if he takes this bait one of them might end up sleeping on the couch. He takes it, anyway. “I just meant it would be nice if your art could double as, like, an income. And not a reason for you to get arrested once a month.”

Louis fishmouths for a second, but only a for a second. Niall’s allowed to be tired but that doesn’t mean he can be a dick. They both know that Louis can’t stand when people make him feel like an idiot. “Sorry we aren’t all nine-to-five _suits_ , New York is more than just Wall Street and law firms. Some people actually have hobbies--”

“Your _hobby_ gets you arrested,” Niall snaps.

Louis bristles, anger sitting deep in his stomach. “I can’t make my art into something it’s not. I thought you of all fucking people would get that,” he says curtly. It’s quiet for a long time, long enough that Louis assumes the conversation is over, Niall looking down at his hands, picking at a hangnail.

“I get it, Louis,” Niall finally says softly but when he looks up to meet Louis’s gaze his eyes are hard. “I get that you don’t want to be a poser, or what the fuck ever. I just think your art has more potential than just your immature whining on the side of a building.”

Louis pauses for a long moment. Decides it’s not worth it. He grabs his bag and calls, “I’m going to Zayn’s” on his way out the door, and he doesn’t get a reply. He wasn’t expecting one.

:::

He comes back the next morning, taking his anger out with Zayn on the side of a traincar in the middle of the night. He comes back to Niall’s with apology bagels and smears of white paint up his forearms. He rings but Niall doesn’t let him in, so he uses his key instead.

Niall’s still in bed, shirtless and swamped in his blankets but wide awake and scrolling through his phone. “I rang,” Louis says from the bedroom doorway. Niall looks up and Louis holds up his box of bagels. Niall scoots over on his mattress, inviting Louis over but he squints up at Louis moves to take his shoes off. “Wet paint?” he asks, eyeing Louis’s arms and Louis shakes his head. Niall looks hesitant for a few moments as Louis kicks off his jeans and jacket but crawls under the covers with two blueberry bagels. Louis rests his head in Niall’s armpit, peering up to his phone. He’s tapping out some long work email that Louis only gets a glimpse of before he switches over to check the stocks. Niall hasn’t said or done anything to suggest that he’s still upset with Louis but Louis feels too far away, right now, even tucked closely into his side. He watches Niall switch rapidly, methodically, between his emails and news apps. He never used to do work outside of work, and especially not in bed in the mornings. Louis rips his bagel in half and eats a bit of it slowly, burrowing under the covers hoping to lure Niall back to sleep. It’s quiet for a long few minutes, only Niall’s fingers tapping mutedly against his phone screen and Winslow’s occasional whines from the end of the bed, begging for a bit of bagel.  “You know,” Louis says quietly. Niall hums. “You’re not the person you were a year ago,” Louis yawns into Niall’s bare shoulder. He’s not sure if he means it maliciously or not. Statement of fact, mostly.

Niall inhales. “You are the person you were a year ago,” he replies softly. It feels like an accusation.

:::

  
“You quit?” Niall asks, breath punching out of his chest in a gasp.

Louis says, “yes,” his back to Niall.

“Why.”

Louis turns, working his fingers through the tie at his neck until it comes undone and he tosses it to the ground. He starts to pace. “Because it was fucking bullshit, Niall, all they had me doing was making photocopies and getting coffee and sorting mail--”

“You said you wanted an easy job,” Niall cuts in, voice sharp and cold and Louis stops pacing to gawk. “That’s the easiest job in the world. You can’t mess that up.”

“Yeah but Niall, it was bullshit, I wasn’t _doing_ anything--”

“Jesus _fucking_ Christ,” Niall breathes, running his hands through his hair and smiling out towards the window in disbelief. “It’s like arguing with a child.”

Louis steels himself. Jaw tight. “I just want to make art.”

He’s not expecting Niall to reply to that so when he does Louis actually flinches a step backwards in shock, Niall’s hands snapping down to his sides. “ _No_ , you want to be a teenager forever with no responsibilities who thinks that he’s the only person who’s ever experienced some fucking teen angst heartbreak. You don’t want anyone to boss you around but you don’t want to be your own boss. What the hell do you want, then?” Louis opens his mouth but doesn’t have a real answer. He isn’t even given the time to answer because Niall’s not done, taking a deep breath and looking Louis straight in the eye. “You grew up in Princeton. So you hate your dad. _Everybody_ hates their dad. You _chose_ to give up that life and move into a shitty apartment with Zayn. You chose to dumpster dive and get arrested and smoke weed every fucking day. Nobody’s forcing you to be miserable. I don’t have any sympathy for you.”

Louis’s heart is crawling up his throat. “So what, then,” he asks. His first thought is that he should be trying harder and his second thought is--

“So maybe you should go,” Niall bites out. Louis doesn’t have a second thought.

::::::

Louis texts Zayn _we just broke up_ before turning his phone off because he’s a self-pitying bastard.  He feels like he’s walked the whole city, from Niall’s flat uptown all the way down the east side, across the Brooklyn Bridge. He gets to Zayn’s around four and has to buzz five times for Zayn to let him in. So Louis doesn’t handle breakups well. He and Zayn both know this. Zayn already has a clean canvas on the living room floor, a bottle of Jack and rolling papers on the coffee table when Louis comes up to the apartment. He lingers at the back of the living room when Louis comes in, drops his bags in the doorway and stands dejectedly, waiting for some kind of snark from Zayn but it never comes. Louis’s chest hurts from how full he feels, Zayn’s silence proof that they can’t just laugh this one off. Proof that this one was something different. He misses Winslow. When Louis looks up at Zayn he can feel his eyes burning and Zayn’s face softens, “Oh, Lou.” He’s crossing the room in seconds, pulling Louis into a tight hug and Louis tucks his face into Zayn’s shoulder, exhales hard. It sounds like a muffled sob but Zayn doesn’t say anything, doesn’t let go until Louis is nodding, ducking his head away and wiping his face hard. “Let’s fucking drink.”

::::::

Zayn doesn’t encourage Louis’s bender in the following week but he doesn’t actively discourage it, either. He accompanies Louis on a number of non-sober paintjobs and just makes sure he doesn’t get himself arrested. He writes every stupid thing he’s ever wanted to paint but knew Niall would have disapproved of. None of them make sense but that doesn’t stop him, _I DONT MISS YOU_ on an empty advertisement panel on the C train uptown and _GIVE ME BACK MY DOG_ on the 1 train back downtown. None of them are thought out or remotely artistic, just angry words on brick or glass or concrete and even that pisses Louis off. Feels like his art doesn’t even belong to himself anymore. _I WANT MY ART BACK_.

::::::

“Fresh wall,” Zayn claps him on the shoulder, tucks his mouth next to Louis’s ear so he can hear him over the din of the bar. Louis blinks blearily up at him and Zayn gives his shoulder a tug and it’s enough for Louis to lean, half-fall off the bar stool and follow him out of the building. The night air is a shock to his system, the spike of cold air on his face shaking him awake. Zayn tilts his head towards the street corner and starts walking and Louis’s feet blindly follow, a part of him wondering if Zayn is lying about a new wall just to get him away from the bar.

There really is a fresh wall off of Grand, still shiny with wet paint in a few spots and they stand admiring it for a few minutes, Zayn chewing his thumbnail while Louis steadily smokes a cigarette. “Could start fresh, yeah?” Zayn breathes after a few long minutes and something in Louis fractures. He flicks his cigarette away, fishes the black can out of the deep inner pockets of his jacket and gives it a few quick shakes. _FUCK OFF_.

:::

  
And so maybe the worst part is that nothing is working. He throws up pieces at night in his fits of anger but walking by them the next morning they all look fucking pathetic. He hates that all he can paint is for Niall. And it's not like they ended on an awful note but Louis convinces himself they did because that's so much easier. He'd rather let it be a malicious breakup in his head than have to face the reality that Niall was right in everything he said, would rather be pissed off than have to acknowledge the possibility of fixing it, apologizing. It’s easier to paint shit out of anger.

Zayn’s a silent shadow throughout it, there for Louis to take his anger out on because he knows that Louis would do the same for him. He lets Louis cry and yell and paint and drink and kiss him because that’s how he gets through things. Impulsively. And Louis doesn’t want to fucking talk about it, never has never will, can’t understand how some people are able to sit down and talk about their anger and fights and breakups like it’s not a big deal, like it didn’t ruin them from the inside out. Like talking about it won’t make it so, so much worse.

Today’s a day he doesn’t get out of bed, waiting for Zayn to come in and check on him and when he does Louis flings an arm out on his mattress, inviting Zayn in. He obliges, crawling into bed next to Louis smelling like fresh paint thinner and cigarette smoke. Louis can’t tell if Zayn’s patience is truly waning lately or if he’s just been quiet. Had to practically drag Louis’s drunk ass home last night from Black Door. Louis hasn’t apologized but it’s one of those things that he’s not sure if he should apologize. Zayn’s always the one who tells him _don’t apologize for how you feel_ , but Louis isn’t sure if that includes when he’s acting like a drunk dick. They lay in silence for a long time on their phones and Louis is chewing it over. Has that bitter tightness in his gut that he gets when he thinks someone is mad at him. He'd rather have them be mad and strike out at him then dance around it, then keep quiet, and Zayn’s always been hard to read. Louis scoots back, pressing his ass against Zayn’s hip and Zayn exhales softly and shifts closer.

“You wanna--?” Zayn murmurs, lips ghosting the back of Louis’s neck and he moves closer, hand slipping gently across Louis’s hip. Louis hums, nodding frantically and rolls over into it, palm splaying across Zayn’s lower stomach. He’s not turned on but he wishes he was, wants to be. Zayn doesn’t move, eyes flicking up and down Louis’s face waiting for Louis to make the first move. Louis wants to...not kiss him but _touch_ him so badly, but can’t bring himself to move, to initiate it. Zayn’s face pulls tight into a frown. “Are you okay?”

The question breaks him out of it and he feels himself tensing up, some sharp-tongued remark slipping out of his mouth before he can stop it, “I can’t believe you’re trying to fuck me so soon after.”

Part of him wants to take it back as soon as he says it but he bites his tongue, wants to see where it takes him, how much further he can fuck this up. There’s a tense silence, Zayn trying to figure out if he wants to push Louis. Louis watches his jaw twitch and then set tightly. “Okay. Get the fuck out, Louis.”

::::::

He grabs his backpack and leaves. He deserved that. He hails a cab and practically dives into the backseat, blurts out “148th St. Lenox Terminal” just because it’s a station far enough from both Niall and Zayn and it can give him some fucking silence for once. He can feel the driver’s eyes on him in the mirror and he tucks his face into the collar of his jacket, pressing himself deeply into the seat until the cab starts to move. His face feels hot but he keeps his arms crossed firmly across his chest, keeps his eyes locked on the flash of passing buildings and cars despite the burning. When he finally blinks his breath leaves him in a stuttered shock, almost smacks himself in the face in his rush to wipe away a tear.  He holds it together until the cab drops him at the station and he jogs down the stairs, stumbles into the first bench on the platform and drops his head into his hands and fucking sobs. It’s on the brink of a panic attack, his breath hitching with difficulty in his chest and his fingernails digging into his palms and he’s alone in Harlem in a dim, sad train station that smells like piss and trash. His ribs ought to be broken. There should be blood on his teeth and shirt but there’s no stains. That pain would hurt less. Nothing hurts when he wants it to. _Get it together._

He wanders for the night, some hopeful fraction of his heart expecting Niall or Zayn to call him and apologize by the morning but it’s almost six and his phone has been silent. He takes the subway down to Harry’s cafe just as he’s opening up for breakfast and Harry gives him a weary look. Finally says, “go sleep in the back, have some breakfast. We can talk after the morning rush.”

There’s nothing to talk about. Louis tells Harry that he and Niall broke up and Zayn was sick of Louis’s shit and Harry just shrugs. “I don’t know what to tell you, Lou. My sister’s visiting this week, or else I’d offer to let you stay with me.”

Louis scrubs a hand across his face, desperate for any kind of validation, “Can you come out with me later, then? Be my lookout?”

Harry doesn’t usually like to go out painting with them but he must see the desperation in Louis’s face because he nods slowly, his bottom lip pinched between two fingers. “I get off at seven.”

:::

Harry sits against the alleyway wall while Louis meticulously sketches out each letter, filling it with white but highlighting each letter with a sharp slash of red, _NEW YORK CITY SUCKS!_ next to a quick, scribbled monkey sticking its tongue out. Louis sprays the final exclamation point and steps back. He looks immediately to Harry. Harry’s face stays neutral for a few long moments before he frowns and turns away. “You’re always talking about, like,” he waves a hand.

He’s been edging back towards the street, clearly ready to leave but Louis lingers back. “What? What’s wrong with it?”

Harry sighs, turns impatiently and holds out his hands. “What do you want me to say, Louis?” He gestures to the wall. “If I tell you I like it, you’ll tell me it’s not your best. If I tell you what I disagree with, you’ll get pissy.” Louis glares at him and Harry must know that he’s in too deep now to back out so he dives into it, “Lou, you’re always all, like _fuck the haters_ and _no bad vibes_ but what if the haters are right? You were all pissed that that rookie in Harlem has been imitating your work, but you want to be the king? You can’t have it both ways.”

:::

The _YOUVE CHANGED_ from Louis’s angry break-up bender is still there a week later, one of the larger, more legitimate pieces he’s done since Niall but he put it in a good spot, on a dumpster in the alley of Niall’s favorite cafe so he’d get the hint. What’s waiting for him when he goes to check on it is worse than finding it scrubbed out. His part is still vibrant, oranges and pinks outlining the light blue script and on the wall next to the painted dumpster is a painfully simple white reply, _YOU HAVEN’T_. There’s no tag on it but Louis knows immediately, also knows deep down that it’s his fault for putting the piece in this alley in the first place. Wasn’t expecting Niall to bite back, is all. And maybe the worst part is that he's still doing exactly what Niall broke up with him for but it's not like he can help it, it's all he knows, it's his whole self. He doesn’t know how to not be like this.

:::

Louis has spent long weekends in Philadelphia and weeks in Detroit and Baltimore and Chicago. He’s gone with Zayn and he’s gone by himself, couch surfing and meeting other kings and fitting himself into the style and scene in every city. New York has never been toppled as the best spot for street art but there’s some article he doesn’t even read on the top of his Twitter feed the next morning, _IS LA THE NEXT BIG SCENE FOR STREET ART?_ He’s never been to LA, never felt the need to go but now there’s some tug in his gut that’s a distinctly different feeling than the hollow ache in the middle of his chest. He’s been couchsurfing and staying in shitty motels in Long Island or Jersey and feels so far away from New York City that he might as well leave it. Google Flights tells him that the next flight into LAX is tomorrow morning at 7:00 for $250. He bites down on his blunt thumbnail hard. This is a bad idea. He’s never been to LA. He should stay here. He shouldn’t dump Winslow on Niall. There might be new art in Los Angeles. New friends to make. His mother always told him to never run from his problems. Zayn and Niall will probably beg him to come home. He books a one-way ticket.

He doesn’t know what to bring so he brings as much as he can cram into his backpack, mostly clothes and his laptop and blackbook. Takes out the rest of the money in his savings account for new paints because he can’t bring spraycans in his carry-on and he can’t afford to check a bag. He takes the subway to JFK with no problems. Then the printer jams when the lady behind the check-in desk tries printing his boarding pass. He has to go through security three times, coins and paperclips and keys still in his pockets each time he tries to go through. He gets lost in the terminal, panic over missing his flight overriding his anxiety about flying across the country without telling anyone. He makes it to his gate with two minutes to spare before the doors close and he finds his seat, shaking off the feeling that he’s not supposed to do this.

Louis has the window seat and the businessman gives him a skeptical look before putting earbuds in and pulling a sleeping mask down. Louis is left to his own devices for the whole flight. He spends an hour compiling a new bitter bullshit breakup playlist and when he feels like he’s about to choke on his own self-pity he fishes a sharpie out of his bag instead. He takes a long time drawing his stag on one side of the sickness bag and then flips it over, writes out _don’t run from this_ in his own handwriting and feels desperate.

:::

_Niall brought your shit over._

Louis stares at the text for a long time. He doesn’t know if Zayn knows that he’s across the country but he must have some idea. Hates that Zayn has to do Louis’s dirty work but at the same time, Louis doesn’t know if he would have been able to stomach seeing Niall to pick up all of the canvases and paint and clothes left at Niall’s apartment. Zayn’s a good friend. Louis probably. Definitely. Doesn’t deserve him. Another text comes through in a minute:

 _He’s keeping Winslow. He got all his stuff out of your room. Said he’s going to London for a bit_.

It’s too much information and not enough. Louis can’t stand the thought of Niall in his bedroom without Louis being there, too. Wonders if Niall picked through all of Louis’s drawers for his t-shirts or just took whichever ones were still left on the ground or under the bed. If Niall took the books that they’ve seemed to share for so long but were Niall’s in the first place. Wonders if he’s going to come back to a bedroom that’s just been wiped clean. He should be so lucky.

He doesn’t answer. Zayn probably wasn’t expecting him to.

:::

He tells the cabbie the address of the first hotel result that Siri suggests. It’s twenty minutes of him and his thoughts and some soft Mexican radio station and palm trees and he picks at his hangnails until two of his fingers are bleeding. Tucks them under his thighs.

He gets a hotel room and sleeps for six hours until it’s dark and then he grabs two cans and his jacket. There’s a wall across the block with a few tags on it but it’s untouched aside from a recently scrubbed out white block of paint covering something old. He starts with a dark blue fill and outlines it with the white, blocky highlighted texts he does best, _SINK OR SWIM._ He snaps a picture and goes to bed that night with paint still under his fingernails feeling accomplished.

He wakes up the next morning to his piece capped over by a giant, neon-green alien head and a tag he can’t read or recognize.

:::

He drinks and smokes for a week in his hotel room. He’s not far from UCLA’s campus and finds himself in any houseparty he can. Other twenty-somethings fighting and fucking and breaking up and pressing shot glasses into his hand, _yo, you’re from New York, that’s sick, man, you want to smoke_? Spilling his guts on the rooftop of some apartment building to strangers he’s never going to see again. He calls Niall at least once a night, after five or six shots but Niall never answers. Louis thinks _he doesn’t know you’re here_. Louis thinks _he doesn’t care._ Louis thinks _You should fucking drop it_ and that gets drowned out by _you should roll another joint, you should have another shot, you should fucking wallow in it._

He meets Danielle because he passed out on her couch after a party at her place. She smells like honeysuckles and gives him a bagel and coffee in a Star Wars mug and all Louis can think about is how she’s some new heart for him to mangle and press up against thorns.

:::

Danielle starts bringing him to parties in her own circles and he meets Jake and Sam and Dan and Jess. They make him drinks and let him smoke and show them his instagram feed. It’s some party at a beachfront house and Louis takes about a million blurry pictures that he’ll end up deleting in the morning. He’s on the balcony calling Niall while smoking a cigarette, like habit now. Couple beers, a few shots. Get some air. Smoke. Call Niall. He’s not expecting him to pick up, coughing on smoke when the ringing stops and it’s the static silence of someone waiting on the other line. “Niall?” Louis breathes but saying his name jerks hard in his chest, feels like a sob. The other line is a quiet roar for six long seconds and then crisp and clear like a knife through the ribs, Niall’s voice: “Stop calling me, Louis.” and then hangs up.

:::

Danielle and her friends take him in, anyway, when he lets it slip that he only bought a one-way ticket to LA and is technically homeless. Danielle gets him a job at the Boardwalk Skate and Surf across the plaza from her waitressing job at On the Waterfront. It's not a bad gig and it pays enough that he can keep his hotel room booked. He started feeling bad crashing on Danielle’s couch and having her drive him to work every morning. Trying to be less dependent, or whatever. It’s easy, not a lot of people surfing in mid-March and most of the rentals are for bikes or scooters or longboards. His boss is named Bill and he lets Louis take smoke breaks whenever he wants as long as they’re not busy and pays him under the table so Louis feels like he can’t complain. Not that that’s ever stopped him before.

“Bill is, like, super paranoid about his countertops,” Louis exhales. He’s leaning against the fence around Waterfront’s outdoor patio and Danielle watches him patiently, flicking the soggy ends of her french fries at him every once in awhile. “I had an uncapped Sharpie next to a clipboard and he yelled at me. Look.” Louis sticks out his arm. His forearms are covered with tiny marker doodles. If he can’t draw on the countertops or on the clipboards he has to resort to his body. Danielle laughs. “You ever hear of a sketchbook?”

Louis scrunches up his face and waves a dismissive hand. Danielle rolls her eyes, standing up and taking her lunch tray with her, her break over. “We’re going bowling tonight. You’re free to come and vandalize the alley benches, or whatever.” Louis smiles and Danielle smiles back. “Pick you up at the end of your shift.”

They go bowling. Louis hasn’t been bowling since he was probably, like, ten, but the vibe hasn’t changed. All Star has space cartoon carpets that light up under blacklights, racks and racks of neon balls. Sam gets them all shoes and Louis picks out a bright purple ball and rolls it between his sock feet at their station. He instagrams a picture of the neon ceiling and spotlights just for the colors and ends up scrolling through his feed until he hits one of Niall’s posts. He’s back in New York at Black Door, out with coworkers or something, six or seven people crammed into to dark, blurry frame. Louis stares at it for a long time.

Gentle fingers card through his hair and tug gently, bringing his gaze up from his phone to Danielle. “It’s your turn,” she tells him, taking his wrist in her hand to pull him to his feet. She plucks his phone from his hands and Louis is grateful that she only glances at the screen for a moment before shoving him towards the ball turnstile. Louis throws two gutterballs.

It turns out the rest of their group isn’t that good at bowling either and the guy behind the desk tells them that bumpers are only for families and kids thirteen and under. Jake decides that if they can’t have bumpers, they should at least have alcohol. They abandon their bowling balls and shoes for the billiard tables at the far end of the building and send Danielle and Louis to order drinks. The bartender is filling a tray of beer glasses for them when a man elbows Danielle roughly, pushing her into Louis’s side. “Hi, honey,” the guy slurs. He’s drunk and still wearing bowling shoes, leaning uncomfortably close to Danielle. She shies away and ignores him. “Sweetie, let me buy you a drink,” the guy insists.

“No, thank you,” Danielle says firmly. She’s pressing herself into Louis’s side but Louis knows if he intervenes now she’ll be upset with him. The man takes a step closer. “C’mon. One drink.” he reaches up for Danielle’s shoulder.

“Hey,” Louis snaps, shifting to gently push Danielle behind him. He feels her hand protective on the middle of his back. “She said no thank you.”

The man sizes him up. He’s wearing a surfer tank and his hair is matted in that way that’s _trying_ to be dreadlocks. Louis could put him out with one punch. Danielle whispers _Louis_ as a warning, a plea _don’t make a scene._ “You could do better, babe,” the guy finally calls over Louis’s shoulder to Danielle. Louis rolls his eyes. “You’re not exactly _better_ , friend,” he mutters.

The guy narrows his eyes but must decide that it’s not worth it as the bartender comes over with Danielle and Louis’s tray. Dreadlocks shakes his head and stalks back to the opposite end of the bar and Louis feels Danielle melt into his back, pressing a mumbled _thank you_ into the back of his neck. They gather their drinks and go back to the rest of the group playing pool. Louis didn’t yell. Didn’t punch anyone or get kicked out or threaten the guy. And Danielle seems more thankful for that instead of the fact that Louis fended the guy off. There’s no expectation from this group to be tough. Jake hands them both pool cues in exchange for the tray of beers and Danielle pats Louis on the hip and says, “Louis just saved me from a big scary surfer man.” She’s kind of joking but she sounds relieved. Squeezes his hip before letting go.

:::

He’s at work when Niall calls, nine at night back in New York but it’s only six here and Louis is in the middle of renting out ten surfboards to a bunch of teenagers to catch the call. He’s not entirely sure he would’ve answered, anyway. He gets the voicemail notification a minute later and relief washes over him, Niall called to ask him to come home, tell him to stop being an idiot, he misses him. Except that’s not what Niall says when Louis raises his phone to listen: _I got all my stuff from you and Zayn’s place. He told me that you were in LA. I’m going to be in London for a week or so, and Zayn’s watching Winslow. I hope you’re safe._ There’s a pause and Louis can only hear his own heart pounding in his throat, waiting for the _i’m sorry, i miss you_ that doesn’t come. Instead: _I don’t think we were made to work like this. I hope we can still be friends. Winslow is fine. Have fun in California_. It’s his business-lawyer-voice punctuated with _California_ that sounds and feels like a hot bite in the middle of Louis’s chest. He hangs up and immediately wants to leave. Stands up and looks desperately around the shop but he’s the only one on shift for another hour and a half. He wants to leave. He could leave, at the risk of pissing Bill off. There’s a long moment that feels significant. He sits back on his stool behind the counter and texts Danielle, _we need to go drink tonight_. She replies _game on_ five seconds later and it’s reassuring enough that Louis gets through the rest of his shift.

:::

“You know when you look back at a breakup,” Louis starts, running his thumb around the rim of his wine glass. He’s using too much pressure, leaving a white line across the pad of his finger. He imagines pressing so hard that the glass cracks, but really it’ll probably just spill. “And at first you think you can point to one moment, right? One fight you can look at and say that was it. Out of the blue, didn’t see it coming.” He frowns. “And then you lie awake and there’s other shit that comes back. Earlier shit. Shit from three weeks before that fight, two months before. Six months.” It’s in glimpses. Moments Louis thought nothing of when it was happening. Moments he mistook for intimacy. Every moment includes a pause. The long pauses where it felt like Niall wanted to speak but he exhaled and let Louis have the last word instead. The pause when the waiter slides the bill onto their table at dinner before Niall always picked it up. The pause in the morning when Louis was just crawling into bed after a night out painting as Niall was waking up, pressing the heels of his palms into his eyes. The pause between Niall’s read receipts and replying with a short text. The pause in Niall’s voicemail before _I don’t think we were made to work like this_. He’s quiet after that. Nothing left to say. Danielle tips sideways and rests her head on his shoulder.

:::

California art is bigger than New York. It’s comprehensive and central, huge, beautiful murals on the sides of buildings that look almost too perfect. Maybe that’s what bothers Louis. There’s not as many quick, messy tags here, not as many white patches on walls. Instead, downtown LA art feels too boxed in. The same three or four artists taking up a few blocks with the same tag or poster on every spot. They’re beautiful pieces but it feels like Banksy bullshit, stuff that really belongs in a gallery for rich white people to buy and feel like they’re rebelling against the system. Or whatever. “I bet half of these artists actually own and run galleries,” Louis scoffs as they skateboard past a poster of a dog wearing an astronaut helmet that Louis has already seen about fifteen times. “You know, quantity isn’t always better than quality--”

“You know that shit they say about people from New York never shutting up about being from New York?” Sam interrupts, laughing. “I’ve never been to New York, but I’d bet that there’s just as many gallery-slash-street artists in New York than there is in LA.”

Louis scrunches up his nose. “It’s different,” he calls ahead as they roll through a crosswalk. Sam’s laugh carries through the breeze backwards to Louis.

“Sure it is, Lou.”

They get to Danielle’s apartment and Sam immediately starts running his mouth, “Louis thinks that LA art is superficial and tacky.”

Danielle gives Louis a small smile. The smile she gives him before she’s about to tear him apart. “You ever think it’s where you’re looking?” She nods when he raises his pack of cigarettes, so he knows this isn’t personal. It’s part of their daily routine now, it seems. Get breakfast. Roast Louis. Go to work. He moves to the window to light a cigarette. “You know, you come to LA and then immediately come downtown, where you probably knew there’d be nothing but poser art. Right? Like if I went to New York and only judged that art scene by whatever I found in Greenwich Village.”

“You make a living on pointing out flaws in other people’s logic?” Louis bites back at her but he’s grinning. She reminds him so much of himself.

“Practically a lawyer,” she snaps back with a sharp smile.

:::

Louis can’t remember the last time he was this tan. California beaches feel like a different world. They’re somewhere between San Clemente and Carlsbad when Danielle and Jake decide that the thin strip of beach up ahead is perfect for a spot, driving right up onto the grass and having to pick their way down the side of a cliff to get to the water. There’s nobody in sight as far as Louis can see. The east coast feels like the ocean belongs to people but Louis feels really fucking small here. Feels like the Pacific would swallow him up without a second thought. He hates it.

Danielle brings a real life picnic basket with a blanket that Louis helps her spread out and Jake and Sam wax their surfboards. Louis sits on the edge of the blanket and buries his toes in the sand, squinting down the beach to an outcropping of cliffs. “What do people do out here? With like, no lifeguards or anything? Do people, like, vandalize shit?”

Danielle gives him a suspicious look but laughs lightly, handing over a box of pita chips. “People come to surf and be on the beach, for the most part. People respect the state parks and everything. Most of the graffiti is, like, high school sweethearts. Jeff loves Sarah, or whatever.”

Louis bites the inside of his cheek. The part of him that’s tempted to tag a cliff is outweighed by something else. Guilt, maybe. Inadequacy? Even if he could get a Rogue tag on a cliff it still wouldn’t be enough to outdo the goddamn Pacific Ocean. One tag on one cliff on the entire California coastline isn’t impressive or talent. It’s desperation. It’s disrespectful.

Louis swims, instead. Swims out far enough where he can’t touch the bottom anymore and ducks under the water. Lets himself panic beneath the surface of the water for ten seconds before a wave rolls over him and draws him back up. Like the Pacific dragging him back to his feet. Like the Pacific is the first one to grab him by the shoulders and say _you’re not dead yet and you’re not dying here so get back up_.

:::

California has made Louis a morning person. It might be the time difference or it might be that all his new friends are weirdly obsessed with going to brunch, and brunch with his new friends is the only time he’s able to tag along and steal food off their plates. They usually end up at Muse on 8th, Louis squished between Danielle and Jess insisting that he's not hungry but Danielle buys him a coffee and an extra scone anyway. They talk about their plans for the weekend and who hooked up with who and shit-talking coworkers and what grad schools they’re applying to and when they’re going abroad and. And these are the type of people that Louis teased back in New York. The kinds of kids on NYU’s campus that he and Zayn couldn’t stand. And now this group is the only reason he hasn’t starved to death or had to sleep on the streets or slink back to New York with his tail between his legs.

:::

“Jesus,” Jake laughs and Louis resists the urge to put his cigarette butt out on the guy’s arm, “Did you just google “break up songs” and dump them all into this playlist?”

“No,” Louis snaps, snatching his phone back and Jake gives him a doubtful look. Louis frowns and thumbs through his library. “It didn’t end well.”

He knows they’ll take the bait and he has a moment where he wonders if he should let Niall off the hook. The tinge of nausea at the back of his throat his brain’s way of telling him that he _knows_ Niall was right in what he did. Doesn’t make the last three months hurt any less, though. “Why didn’t it?” Jake asks.

“He wanted me to be someone I couldn’t be,” Louis says with a small shrug. Not entirely untrue but there’s another voice in his head, _you could be a real artist. You just have to grow up._ “He hated my art.”

Jake gives him a sympathetic nod but Danielle is staring hard at Louis. “Is that why you came to LA? To get away from him?” Louis nods and Danielle raises her eyebrows. “Was it abusive?” Louis shakes his head immediately and Danielle looks away, then. “Seems a bit excessive to run across the country to get away from him, is all.”

:::

His new California friends don’t exactly approve of his vandalism habits. He’s in the middle of talking about some of the best veterans he’s ever worked with when Jake interrupts. “I worked with PK Kid a few years ago. He’s incredible, he mostly works in north Jersey but he’s got a few pieces on the Turnpike going into New York that nobody else can even _try_ to touch. He’s the best at scaling watertowers. I got to meet Steel, too. He had this little skipper boat and used to go to Ellis Island, before it got fixed up. He had pictures, took an entire wall outside one of the south island buildings that you could see from the Statue of Liberty--”

“He vandalized Ellis Island?” Jake interrupts, looking shocked. Louis kind of laughs, “Well, yeah, in the 70’s and 80’s it was a heaven spot to get out to--”

“That seems really…” Jake laughs like he’s tiptoeing. “Disrespectful?”

Louis...isn’t following. Danielle jumps in. “Yeah. Like. That was a place for people to come into America, right? But didn’t a lot of them die there, or get turned away?” she’s frowning, sounds like she’s talking more to herself but she’s looking hard at Louis. “I’d be pissed if someone, like, tagged over the bedroom my mother died in or whatever.”

Louis scoffs but there’s the familiar sting of annoyance in the middle of his chest. “Guys, c’mon. I don’t think it’s that big of a deal--”

“Do you get mad when people go over your art?” Danielle snaps, sharp and focused. Louis has never argued with someone this strong before. He nods. “Okay, well. Imagine someone breaking into your childhood home and spraypainting dicks, or whatever, on the walls. And their argument-- _your_ argument--is that it’s okay because nobody lives there anymore and it’s the best house in the middle of town. Does that make it any less shitty?”

Louis bites his lip. He doesn’t have anything to say to that.

He doodles in his blackbook in the cab back to his hotel, spotted a half-wall bordering the park down the street this morning and has been itching to mark it. He sketches out a big piece in the book, _EVERYBODY’S A CRITIC_ , every color and letter meticulously planned out but he gets back to his room and doesn’t go through with putting it up. Kicks his bag of cans under the bed and goes to sleep instead.

:::

Louis doesn’t feel homesick until a night on the beach at Santa Monica. They’ve commandeered a little metal table on the sidewalk outside the beachside bar and Danielle and Sam are singing Springsteen and Louis is drinking some microbrew beer that Jake shoved in his hands and Louis has never seen the sun go down over the beach like this. There’s a dog running through the surf chasing a tennis ball and a cluster of teenagers smoking and building a sandcastle and it smells like salt and the heat of sticky black asphalt. He’s been here for almost two months. Nausea hits him hard and fast, no real reasoning behind it but he’s excusing himself and running around to the side of the building to vomit. What the fuck is he doing here. What the fuck.

:::

They get tattoos at Louis’s request, one of the nicest, cleanest shops that Louis has ever been to. The artists working walk-ins take Louis and Danielle and Jess back one by one and Louis jokes that he’s going to get _MOM_ in a heart on his ass. Genuinely considers it for a few minutes while he fills out the paperwork. His artist is Scott who brings him back into one of the private stalls in the rear hallway and Louis hands over the scrap of paper. It’s his own cursive script, _not heartbroken_ and he pulls his shirt up and waits patiently for Scott to apply the template across his ribs.

It hurts a fucking lot. His knuckles are bitten white and raw by the end of it, Scott’s fingers poking at the fresh ink for a few seconds before he wipes it down and bandages it, rattling off aftercare as Louis leafs through the bills in his pocket and pays him with a hefty tip. He leaves the shop not feeling any different aside from the lingering tendrils of adrenaline but maybe that’s what he was hoping for.

  
They go to a juice bar. Louis thinks it’s joke, at first, when he sees the menu, a chalkboard above the counter with names like _The Rejuvenator_ and _Spicy_ and _Full Cleanser._ He gets one called _The Fireball_ and sips it, pretending it’s the whiskey and not some orange-cinnamon-”Detox smoothie”-monstrosity. Danielle tags him in an instagram photo and he goes to look at it, but sees Zayn’s new post first. There’s no location or tags or captions but Louis knows that it’s meant for him, _CALL YOUR MOM_ in Louis’s favorite big, blue chalk letters on black pavement. Louis misses him.

:::

He lets Danielle watch him draw. The streets around Santa Monica are littered with chalk art, from small kids’ doodles to larger pieces taking up two or three sidewalk bricks. It’s the first big piece that Louis has tried since getting here and his heart isn’t quite in it.  He outlines _NOT SO BAD_ in bold orange chalk and colors around it in purple and blue swirls and splotches. Danielle curls up on a bench and watches him work, silent and observant for an hour while Louis crawls around on the ground. It’s not his best work, when he stands up and steps back to look down on it. The chalk is more vibrant up close while he was working on it. Louis never quite did chalk as well as Zayn did.

Danielle kisses him on the cheek when he sits on the bench next to her and he leans into it, turning for a moment before he kisses her on the mouth and she lets him.

They’re back at her place having beers with Jake and Sam when Louis buries his head in his arms and decides that he’s fucking tired. As quickly as he decided to come out here he decides that he wants to go home. He grabs his bag and kisses Danielle on the cheek and leaves. Louis stumbles out of Danielle’s apartment with an almost dead phone and $7 in cash and one of his shoes is missing its laces and box of broken chalk in his back pocket and he wants to go home. He walks down to the beach and sits in the sand. Buries his feet up to his ankles and googles the first available flights back to JFK. The remaining five percent battery on his phone and the few paychecks from the surf shop are gracious enough to let him book a ticket before his phone dies, abandoning him on a beach in California with nobody to call and no map to get him back to his hotel.

:::

Pulling into LAX with just his backpack feels like he’s waving a white flag. His mostly-full cans in his carry-on all get confiscated at security. He gets on the plane with a duffel bag of sand and broken seashells and stolen hotel toiletries and dirty clothes. There’s no revelation or relief. There’s nothing to say. He sleeps for the whole flight back.

:::

He hasn’t exactly missed New York but there’s a familiarity that comes back to him as soon as he steps foot back at the terminal in JFK. He’s missed knowing his surroundings. He skips past baggage claim and onto the E line, rides the subway for an hour before he can work up the courage to take his phone off of airplane mode and find someone to stay with. Doesn’t quite have the courage to face Zayn yet. He calls Harry because Harry is the most removed from Louis’s bullshit and if he’s going to unload, he may as well unload on someone who has previously been minimally burdened by his bullshit. Harry tells him to come over as soon as he lands. Of course he does. Something that tastes like pity and guilt and acid sticks to the back of Louis’s throat the whole subway ride to the village.

Harry already has the pull-out couch made up with blankets and pillows and he opens the door with the most gentle and genuine _hello_ that Louis has heard in months. Exhaustion hits Louis in a sudden wave that threatens to pull him under but Harry tugs him gently by the wrist instead, leading him to the couch where there’s a few boxes of Chinese takeout already waiting. He doesn’t ask about the last three months, just starts telling Louis about the documentary series he’s been binging about East Asian wildlife, the soft mumble of the TV and Harry’s occasional explanations drawing Louis into the best sleep he’s had in weeks.

:::

He wakes up and decides he’s in New York to stay. It feels monumental, emerging from the last twenty four hours of uncertainty and the stale air in the plane and a bleeding index finger and knowing that he’s back for good. There’s nowhere else to run or hide that will make this any less fucking painful, so he might as well go through it in the city he knows best.

He goes for a walk. Circles around up through midtown checking on his pieces. He doesn’t expect many of them to last, most of them don’t even make it a month when he’s in New York before they get scrubbed out by NYC public works. The _DONT BE A DICK_ wall across from Nialls’ apartment building from a year and a half ago is well worn and painted over but Louis doesn’t want to touch that wall yet. Feels too much like he’d be touching a raw nerve.

But he’s not expecting anyone to have tagged over him. New York respected him. So when there’s a new piece messily and obviously painted over one of his best spots, he doesn’t know how to react. The _NO GUTS NO GLORY_ on the Gapstow bridge is capped by something new. It’s crude, rough on the brick but it’s clearly his stag, wearing a crown with red arrows through its torso and neck. _THE KING IS DEAD_ is scrawled on top of it in some rookie’s illegible tag, and Louis stares at it, waiting for feel something. Anger or annoyance or humor but instead he feels hollowed out.

:::

It’s been three weeks and Louis can’t fucking listen to another one of Harry’s vegan organic hippie dinner recipes on youtube for one more night. Needs to get out of the apartment. Needs pizza. Needs to _paint_. He grabs his key and wallet and bag and shouts, “I’m going out!” on his way out the door.

He’s only gotten the first outline up when a bright light hits him and he turns to squint into the spotlight. Blue and red lights flash twice up at him and Officer Payne steps out from behind the bright floodlight to look up at Louis. “Thought you had gotten out of my hair for good,” he calls up. Louis turns back briefly to pout at his unfinished piece, _GOOD AS GOLD_ but it doesn’t look so impressive as just a white outline. “Can I fill this in?” Louis calls back down to Payne, raising his gold can up and Payne rubs his face. “Don’t make me come up there, Louis.”

“I’d love to see that,” Louis snips and for a second he feels so good. On top of the world. And then Payne sighs and tilts his head to his shoulder, clicking into his walkie, “I may need backup at 48th and 2nd, possibly aggressive perp--”

“Al _right_ , alright, Jesus,” Louis shouts, waving his arms and chucking his can into his bag before he starts towards the latter. Payne smiles and says “nevermind” into his radio.

He doesn’t use handcuffs, which is nice, so Louis gets into the cop car amicably. So this is what being a real adult is like. Not having to fight and curse and spit at police officers.

  
Which. He’s still being arrested for the ninth time for vandalism. So he probably can’t truly speak to the “real adult” thing yet.

He could only call two people, and he’s not going to make his mother drive into the city to bail him out of jail. “Harry,” he breathes in relief when the other line clicks through. “Don’t be mad.”

There’s a long pause. “Are you at the police station?”

“Please don’t be mad.”

He can’t tell if Harry’s mad or not. “I’ll be there in twenty minutes. Hang tight.”

The subway ride back to Harry’s place is quiet, Harry tapping away at his phone and Louis drawing in the condensation on the window. Harry hasn’t said a word since they left the precinct, which means he’s mad. Or, rather, as Harry would probably say in a downhearted mother’s voice, _I’m not mad. I’m just disappointed_. “Hey,” Louis sighs, rolling his head to look at Harry. Harry spares him a look. “I’m thinking about opening a gallery.”

He doesn’t know why he says it. He _has_ been thinking about it but he feels like he says it more just to please Harry. He’s not completely serious until Harry’s eyebrows raise slowly and his mouth breaks into a rare, toothy grin and he scoots closer, slinging an arm around Louis and nuzzling against his cheek. “I know a guy in Brooklyn, he’s got a great space I know he’d let us use. Do you have anything you know you want to show? Will you sell?”

Louis pinches the inside of his wrist but leans back into the crook of Harry’s arm. “I’m not sure yet,” he replies and Harry must pick up on his tone because he nods and leans back.

“If you need a space,” he says after a moment, the train slowing to their stop. “Just let me know.”

:::

He’d know him across a city block. Louis considers, for a wildly hysterical moment, escaping out the bathroom window or back door like a coward. It dawns on him how fucking stupid of an idea that is so he’s rooted to the spot. Thinks about how a year ago, he would’ve approached Niall. Said some passive aggressive shit. Might have yelled across the cafe. Now he just wishes that the floor would swallow him up.

They catch each other’s eyes and Niall looks away first, mouth drawn tight and tipped downward, ducking his face into his shoulder before looking back down at his phone. It makes Louis’s stomach turn because it’s an expression he’s never seen before on Niall, at least not so openly. It’s pity. Niall pretends not to see him out of pity and Louis’s hands start to tremble even after he balls them into fists and shoves them into his pockets. Feels like the same kind of pity people have when they turn a blind eye to homeless people sleeping on the sidewalk, to people who are trying to cry on the subway without being seen. Louis stares hard at a crack in the tile floor and waits to feel an anger that doesn’t come. He looks up again and Niall’s completely consumed by his phone and something like panic rises in Louis’s throat. He might be sick. He makes his way straight for the door. He tells himself that he doesn’t look to Niall’s table as he pushes out of the cafe.

:::

Harry’s friend is Chris who has a studio space in Brooklyn that he’s happy to rent out to Louis for a gallery show. Harry offers to chip in for the rent without Louis even having to ask and it’s done. It’s happening, Louis can open whenever he wants, his only rule is to not go over the fire code capacity. Harry hugs him and hands him the keys to the studio and Louis can’t even describe the feeling.

:::

Louis is sitting alone in the middle of the gallery smoking when the front door chimes. “We’re closed,” Louis half-shouts, not quite able to keep the exhausted anger out of his voice. It’s quiet for a few long moments and then footsteps climb the three short steps into the gallery space.

“Not sure if you should be smoking in here,” Zayn says.

Louis could fucking cry. Zayn crouches and then sits next to Louis, holding his fingers out for a hit. “I thought cigarette smoke stains on the wall would add to the whole…” Louis waves a hand absently as he hands over the cigarette. “Vibe.”

Zayn exhales his smoke in a laugh. Louis has missed him so much. “Harry texted me,” Zayn murmurs. Louis tips his head down into his arms and glances at him. “California help you do some soul searching?”

“California was fucking bullshit,” Louis spits, grinding out the cigarette butt into the hardwood floor and standing up to pace. “You would’ve hated it.”

There’s a stretch, then, Louis wandering to a stack of his canvases against the back wall with an apology clawing up to the back of his mouth and Zayn watching him silently. Zayn says, “I’m glad you’re back” in the same breath that Louis turns and breathes, “I’m so fucking sorry.” He’s not going to _cry_ but he blinks hard a few times and keeps his eyes trained carefully on the ground. Is kind of waiting for the backlash but it never comes, instead it’s Zayn getting to his feet and crossing the room. He kisses Louis on the cheek before hugging him and Louis’s legs almost give out in pure relief. “I missed you,” Zayn mutters into Louis’s hair, knotting his fingers through it and giving it a soft tug and Louis tucks his face deep into Zayn’s shoulder and inhales. He’s missed him he’s missed this he’s missed everything. Louis squeezes Zayn’s shoulder and he pulls back, grinning like an idiot. Zayn nods to the canvases behind them. “You really going to give this a shot?”

Anxiety jumps in Louis’s chest but he nods. “If you’ll help.”

Zayn smiles, warm and familiar even in the dark white of the empty gallery. “It’s gonna be fucking killer.”

:::

Louis throws himself into his gallery. It takes a week for him to adjust to the space, nobody except for Harry and Zayn coming in to tell him _you can’t put that there, you can’t paint there_. He has four huge walls that are all his and he’s only overwhelmed for the first few days before he starts hanging canvases. Harry comes by to help but mostly to annoy Louis. “Most of the time, artists already have things to hang,” Harry sniffs from where he’s sitting in the middle of the mostly-empty gallery.

Louis glances at him as he lines up his cans. “Can’t exactly carry in all the bridges and walls and train cars with my work on them, can I?”

He hits a different stride, working in the gallery, no threat of police or other taggers trying to mess with his work. He ends up sleeping in the studio most nights, anyway, can’t quite trust the notion that he could leave an unfinished canvas on the wall at night and come back to it untampered with the next morning.

Zayn brings a canvas that Louis hasn’t seen in a year but he breaks into a bright grin when Zayn props it up against the wall. _Greetings from New York City!_ Still bright and as vibrant as it was the day that he and Zayn painted it on their living room floor.

Louis gives the two postcard paintings their own wall, _Greetings from New York City!_ Hanging by itself because Louis works on the California canvas for three days straight. Ends up redoing it because the first time it was too fucking gray and cloudy and not at all what LA was really like, stop fucking projecting. _California: Wish You Were Here!_ Goes up next to the New York postcard at the end of the week, the golden gate bridge painted with gold chains instead of cables, a walk of fame star with _Rogue_ on it and the Hollywood sign on Mount Lee that spells out _HOMECOMING_ instead. He hangs the two canvases side by side and feels like his old self.

:::

He can fit about twelve large pieces into the gallery space. It’s not as hard as he thought it’d be. Worrying for the first three days that people wouldn’t respect it as much, or something, if it wasn’t on the street. And then Zayn shows up one day with an unfinished canvas and Louis’s old blackbook and tells him _this is your space. Out there, you have to prove yourself to stay on a wall. Having your art in here means you already have._ The canvas only has _DARLING,_ painted on it in swirling red cursive, with space after it that clearly was meant for another few words that Louis has since forgotten. His blackbook is filled with works that never made it to the streets. All of them felt too intimate. But maybe now. The space after _DARLING,_ gets filled with flowers, vibrant greens and blues and yellows and pinks. It feels like where he was a year ago, in the height of it, king of New York and in the best relationship he’s ever had. How he thought he’d finally found his place for good. He hangs it next to another unfinished canvas, this one started in a fit of anger and self-pity a few days after he and Niall fought. _IT STILL HURTS_ is written with black Sharpie across the whole canvas in sharp strikes. It doesn’t look like his art but he remembers doing it, Zayn watching him do it from the couch while hugging a handle of Smirnoff to his chest to keep Louis from trying to drink anymore. He’s itching to paint over it but doesn’t. Instead he outlines each letter with lighter and lighter shades of blue until it doesn’t look so harsh.

:::

His new pieces in the gallery aren’t written for anyone except himself. Small reassurances that he was too embarrassed to plaster onto the sides of buildings. Everything on the streets was trying too hard. The first time Harry and Zayn come over when most of the work is up Louis paces in the lobby biting his nails until his thumb bleeds. He inches into the studio after a few minutes of silence, no mocking laughter or loud teasing that he expected. Bared his fucking soul in that gallery and he’s having second thoughts until Zayn crushes him in a hug as soon as he rounds the corner. “It’s not...stupid, is it,” Louis asks into Zayn’s shoulder and Zayn presses his face into the crown of Louis’s head for a long few moments. “It’s amazing, Louis,” he says as they pull back, Harry standing behind Zayn with his hands in his pockets. Louis’s face is bright red, he can feel it. He raises his eyebrows at Harry, who dips his head. “Your best work, Lou,” he says softly. Louis takes a deep breath and does a slow turn around the whole studio. It’s like he’s standing in the middle of his own heart. Life flashing before his eyes, or whatever. He should invite his mom.

:::

He sends out handwritten invitations and posts about it on Rogue’s instagram account. The night of the opening he stands in the middle of the gallery wearing the suit Niall gave him and realizes that he’s never worked so hard on anything in his entire life. He considered, for the last three days, opening the gallery but not showing up. He’s never been standing next to a piece on the streets for people to come up and criticize him to his face. Twelve canvases with the last two years painted on them. Not that everyone who comes will know the whole story but the ones that do know are the ones that scare him the most.

And then the door chimes and Harry’s carrying a cheese and crackers platter and Zayn’s carrying a bag of champagne bottles and he says, “let’s fucking do this. You’re a real-ass artist, Lou!”

:::

Other taggers show up, of course they do, some like they just got done painting outside and some doing their best to be presentable. Louis knows some personally but not others. He shakes a lot of paint-stained hands and gets nothing but warm and genuine compliments and congratulations. Nobody accuses him of being a poser. Nobody accuses him of selling out. Mostly it’s _this is amazing. Proud of you. We missed you while you were gone._

Skeleton and Robo are there with the whole SoHo crew, lots of new faces and names that Louis doesn’t recognize. A lot of them only know him as Rogue, so seeing him as Louis Tomlinson in a real suit in a real gallery brings with it plenty of jabs, _little Lewis all grown up! don't forget us when you're in the MoMA, Lewis would you be mad if I graffitied the outside of this gallery._ A few old vets mill around. Louis’s pocket is filled with stickers by the end of the night, phone numbers hastily scribbled on the back with offers to _call, sometime, if you’re ever looking to collab in Brooklyn, in Harlem, in Jersey City, it’s great seeing you out there._ He’s buzzing by the end of it. Existing somewhere between the street community he knows and loves and has missed so fucking much and the gallery scene, strangers offering to buy his art. And yeah capitalism sucks and a year ago he hated the thought of some yuppie buying any of his work but all of his offers have been from _friends_ and from people who are struck somehow by his canvases. Lots of people approaching him asking _did you put up that alien on 3rd, the lion you painted across from that middle school is my son’s favorite, it’s always cool seeing someone sticking it to the man, New York needs more brains like yours._ He sells two canvases in the first hour and instead of feeling bitter and possessive like he expected to, he feels nothing but pride when he adds _SOLD_ sticky notes to the edges of the canvases.

:::

He almost doesn’t recognize Officer Payne in his civilian clothes, shirtsleeves rolled up to reveal toned, tattooed forearms. Louis flinches away as he approaches, anyway. Force of habit. Officer Payne laugh, a rare sight that Louis has only ever seen from behind jail cell bars. Up close his eyes get all squinty, laugh lines around his eyes and face more prominent when he’s not scowling at Louis. “Look who’s decided to be a productive member of society,” he says, extending a hand. Louis eyes him suspiciously to make sure he’s not secretly holding handcuffs or anything before he shakes the man’s hand. “You’re not going to arrest me, right,” he deadpans.

  
Officer Payne shakes his head and crosses his arms over his broad chest. Louis says _fuck the police_ a lot but he’s never really genuinely considered it until right now. “Liam. I’m off the clock. I saw a flyer outside the precinct and figured I’d come see what you’re capable of when I’m not chasing you five blocks in my car.”

“Ha, ha,” Louis rasps dryly but he dips his head in thanks. “Well. Feel free to look around. Probably eighty percent of the people in this building would evacuate if they knew you were a cop, so keep it on the down-low.”

“Deal,” Liam replies with a stern nod, taking a handful of crackers and throwing Louis a sloppy salute before heading into the art space. This is definitely the weirdest night of Louis’s life.

:::

He sees Niall come in before Niall sees him and he searches frantically for Zayn, finds him looking back at him calmly from across the gallery, raises his eyebrows, a silent _you good?_ Louis gives a stuttered nod, lets the panic wash over him for three long seconds and then he jumps back into it. He’s not angry or scared or happy to see him. Okay, he’s a little happy to see him. He looks like he’s come right from work, heather gray blazer that looks new over a faded black dress shirt that Louis has watched him button up a thousand times. Niall looks out of place but he’s always been good at fitting himself in anyway, shakes hands and gives waves to some of the familiar artists that he knows through Louis. Louis is rooted to the spot, watching Niall make his way closer, still hasn’t seen him. Louis touches his tie self-consciously. It’s the same suit Niall bought him four months ago. Still the only suit he owns.

Niall almost collides with him before he sees him and Louis almost lets him go right past. But he must catch Niall’s eye and Niall’s face lights up like the last four months didn’t happen. It’s a weight off of Louis’s chest immediately. Niall hugs him and Louis’s hand still slots neatly against his shoulderblade, his face still tucks neatly into the crook of Niall’s neck. He tells himself that he lets go before Niall does.

“This is amazing,” Niall says as they break apart and something in Louis’s chest constricts in the fear that they’ll fall back into it. Louis could so easily fall back into it.

“Thank you,” Louis mumbles, crossing his arms. He’s got a million things he could say but nothing really feels like it would fit, _People have already bought some of these but not for the reasons I wanted them to. You’re standing in the middle of my heart. Every canvas in that room is about you. I don't want the money I just want them to understand and you’re the only one who does._ Instead he says, “I hope you like it.”

He stays in the lobby greeting people while Niall makes his way into the gallery space. He doesn’t want to talk about it and he hopes that Niall understands that, won’t come out of the studio and say _hey, I know that that canvas was about me. I remember when you painted that. I remember how in love with me you are. Were._ _Do you want to try again_. Not that Niall would say that. He wouldn’t. It’s just.

“This is incredible,” Zayn pulls him back, grabbing Louis by the shoulder and wheeling him towards the table of snacks and drinks. There’s a pause, Zayn taking a handful of grapes and sizing Louis up. “Did you invite him?” he asks, careful but firm. Louis opens his mouth to explain but he doesn’t know how to. He just nods. Zayn shrugs and moves away to talk to Josh and Nick, still never been one to judge.

Niall comes back into the lobby half an hour later but doesn’t come immediately over to Louis. It’s been long enough that Louis is starting to think he’s off the hook when Niall finally circles his way over, waiting patiently for Louis to finish saying goodbye to a few painters from Queens. Louis turns to him reluctantly. Niall’s smiling, his face soft and cautious. He clears his throat, “Can we talk?”

Louis feels his face fall. _No we don’t need to. No I don’t want to. There’s nothing left to say. If we talk I’m going to fall back into it._

Louis lights a cigarette as he follows him out of the gallery to the sidewalk, Niall stepping down onto the street while Louis stands up on the curb and they’ve stood like this a thousand times. Waiting for the other to speak. “I dropped Winslow off at Zayn’s place,” Niall starts, kicking at a pebble. It feels like a quick sting but when he looks up he’s smiling, genuine, “How was California?”

Louis cracks his knuckles and ignores the sudden itch on his ribs. “It was good. I had never been. Kind of just couch-surfed for a while.” he bites his tongue. Could tell him that his art did great out there but there’s no need to lie here and now, “the scene out there wasn’t so easy, so. Came back.”

Niall rubs his chin and looks back over at Louis’s shoulder at the gallery building. “I’m really proud of you for this stuff. Not that I doubted you could do it, or whatever, but.” he looks back at Louis, “your art in there is so different than what you put on the streets.”

“Thanks?” Louis laughs, not sure if it’s a compliment or not but Niall smiles bright and big so he takes it as one, exhaling cigarette smoke through his nose as he smiles back. “Harry and Zayn really helped. Getting me the space and all.” It feels like he’s toeing the boundaries that he knows, asking the next question, “How have you been? How was London?”

Niall slides his hands into his pockets and shrugs. “London was good. I had to go for work. I got a promotion.”

“Niall!” Louis blurts, dropping his cigarette to give Niall a hug, “that’s awesome.”

“Thanks,” Niall says against Louis’s shoulder and this time Niall pulls back first but he’s laughing. “This is weird, right?”

“Yeah,” Louis exhales in a relieved laugh. “Yeah, it is.” He pauses. Has to ask. “Are you mad at me?”

Niall’s face creases in confused surprise. “No? No, I’m not mad. Seriously. I just think…” he cracks his knuckles, shrugging and Louis fills it in for him, “we didn’t work.”

“Yeah,” Niall breathes. When he looks back up at Louis his face is neutral. “We were good, though, right. While we lasted.”

Louis pulls off a fleck of a hangnail and is grateful that it doesn’t bleed. He shrugs. “We were in love.” He looks up at Niall for confirmation and Niall’s head dips in a gentle nod and he’s smiling. “That’s okay, right? That we were and now we....aren’t?”

“Yeah. Yeah, that’s okay.”

A gaggle of Louis’s art friends stumble out of the gallery yelling and Louis and Niall are quiet, for a moment, Louis giving them a wave and calling a _thank you_ as they hoot and holler their way down to the end of the street. “It’s good to see you,” Niall says, firm and clear and Louis’s chest swells with warmth. Niall extends a hand. Louis takes it without any hesitation, clasping it tight. Niall’s thumb against the pulse in Louis’s wrist feels like an apology. “You too, Niall.”

Niall leaves from there and Louis lets him go, Niall hailing a cab and Louis turning back into his gallery, both looking back to each other and waving before the taxi door shuts and Louis gets sucked back into the crowd still lingering in the studio.

Everything’s still moving. Louis hasn’t burned the city to the ground and Niall hasn’t torn his heart out and eaten it. A month ago the city felt too small for the two of them but now it feels like how it should. Rattling and tight but tall and vast, the whole world right here in Louis’s building with all of the best people on earth.

:::

It’s him and Zayn and Harry sitting on the floor on the gallery eating stale nachos at midnight. He’s sold all but his two postcard canvases, couldn’t bring himself to put a price on those two or separate them. “What a good night,” Harry sighs, flopping onto his back, a little too drunk on champagne but Zayn and Louis have been eyeing each other for ten minutes, looking between each other and Zayn’s black backpack shoved under the refreshments table. “Once more, then?” Zayn asks and Louis grins, tacks on, “for good luck.”

“Where are we going?” Harry groans when Louis and Zayn each grab a wrist and tow him to his feet. Louis swaps his suit jacket for two cans on the subway ride back into Manhattan, Harry dozing on Zayn’s shoulder while Louis shoves his jacket and tie into Zayn’s backpack. They don’t look so out of place getting off the train uptown in their dress shirts and slightly drunk stumbles but Louis remembers the building with ease, cutting into the same stairwell and climbing slowly, waiting for Harry to catch up. Zayn props the roof door open with a brick and the three of them scamper out onto the terrace to face the huge white wall, the _DON’T BE A DICK_ not visible at all anymore under a few layers of paint. They don’t have a ladder and they can only work through the flashlights on their phones but Louis hikes up his shirtsleeves and climbs up on the roof’s border anyway. He casts a look over his shoulder across the block at Niall’s apartment and stands for a long time with a palm against the wall. For the first time in a year he doesn’t have anything to say. He shakes his navy blue can in his fist for a long minute and then a flicker catches his eye, turning fully back to see Niall’s apartment slowly lighting up, the kitchen and living room lights turning on and there’s a shadow moving outside to the balcony. “Lou,” Zayn says and Louis looks down at him. He’s sitting back against the brick with Harry leaning heavily on his shoulder, both of them shining their phone lights up at the wall. Zayn’s half-grinning. How fucking ridiculous they must look, Louis balancing on the edge of a building wearing a suit and Zayn trying to keep harry from passing out on a strange rooftop. Louis gives the can a few more shakes and starts to paint. It’s only as big as he can reach and it’s sloppy, in his own handwriting. _TAKE CARE. BE GOOD_. _LOVE YOU_.

Niall’s moved back inside and Louis slides to sit on the brick, staring across at his building for a full minute. And then Niall’s living room flicks on and off in rapid succession like silent applause. Louis climbs off the wall and bows deeply. Niall’s apartment goes dark after a few long minutes and Louis turns, draping an arm around Harry and Zayn on their way back to the stairwell. They make it back down to the sidewalk and nobody arrests them and the street is quiet and washed in dark gold from the street lights. Louis is thinking that he’s still putting the pieces together. He’s thinking that maybe he’s getting through it. He’s thinking that there are still things here that are worth holding onto.

**Author's Note:**

> tumblr inspo tag for this is [here.](http://foxesmouth.tumblr.com/tagged/fin)


End file.
